The Diaper Diaries. Abby Gaines

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Ordinarily,” he agreed. “But in this case I’m hoping you’ll suffocate yourself.”

      “And then this poor baby will have no one who cares.” She patted the little boy’s back. “Let me tell you how much I charge for my services.” Bethany named a sum that had Tyler’s eyebrows shooting for the ceiling.

      “I had no idea babysitting was such a lucrative profession.”

      “One of a thousand things you have no idea about,” she said loftily. “Now, when can I move in?”

      “Move in?” Tyler felt as if his brain was ricocheting around his head, trying to keep up with her twisted mind. What was she planning next?

      “You’re aware that babies wake in the night?” she asked. “That they need feeding and changing 24/7?”

      Tyler had been vaguely aware of the unreasonable nature of infants, but he hadn’t yet translated that to having to violate his privacy by having someone move in. He’d never even had a live-in girlfriend. “You’re not moving in.”

      “Okay, if you think you can handle the nighttime stuff…” She shrugged. “I guess with your dating history you’re used to not getting much sleep. But those middle-of-the-night diapers are the worst. Just make sure you buy a couple of gallons of very strong bleach and three pairs of rubber gloves. Oh, and have you had a rabies shot?”

      Was she suggesting he could get rabies from the baby? He stared at her, aghast. She looked back at him and there was nothing more in her blue eyes than concern for his wellbeing. Which made him suspicious. But he wasn’t willing to take the risk.

      “Fine,” he said, “you can move in.”

      She didn’t blink. Only a sharp breath betrayed that she hadn’t been certain he would agree. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. “But don’t get too comfortable. I don’t imagine I’ll have custody of him for more than a few weeks, max, before either his mom is found or social services take over.”

      “That’s all the time I’ll need,” Bethany said.

      “I’ll have Olivia get me some earplugs,” he said. “When you’re nagging me about your research, I won’t be listening.”

      “While she’s out buying those, she can buy or rent some baby equipment and supplies,” Bethany said. “I’ll write you a list—do you have a pen?”

      Tyler handed over his silver pen with a sense of impending doom.

      Bethany scribbled a list of what looked like at least two dozen items, and handed it to him.

      “If you like, I can take the baby to your place right now and—” She stopped. “We can’t keep calling him ‘the baby’—how about you choose a name for him?”

      “Junior?” he suggested.

      “A proper name. One that suits him.”

      Tyler rubbed his chin. “Okay, a name for someone with not much hair, a potbelly, incontinent…My grandfather’s name was Bernard.”

      Bethany laughed reluctantly. “Bestowing a Warringtonfamily name on him might create an impression you’d rather avoid.”

      Good point. Tyler looked the baby over. “Ben’s a nice name for a boy.”

      “Ben,” she repeated. “It suits him.” She dropped a kiss on the infant’s head, as if to christen him. “Okay, Ben, let’s get you home.” To Tyler, she said, “I don’t have a car. Are you going to drive me, or call me a cab? Better order one with a baby seat.”

      “How did you get here today?”

      “By bus,” she said impatiently.

      “Everyone has a car,” he said.

      “Underfunded researchers don’t.”

      Pressure clamped around Tyler’s head like a vise. He massaged his aching temples.

      Bethany had promised to give him hell, and she didn’t even have the decency to wait until she’d moved in.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      BETHANY PULLED her knitting out of its bag, propped herself against two large, squashy pillows and checked out the view. Of Tyler’s bedroom. From Tyler’s bed.

      This was so undignified, being forced to wait for her employer on his bed. No doubt he’d be less than impressed to find her here.

      “It’s his own devious, underhanded fault,” she muttered as she untangled a knot in her wool.

      She’d been full of self-congratulatory delight at having inveigled her way into Tyler’s multimillion-dollar home in Virginia Highlands so she could brainwash him into giving her money. Her sense of triumph had lasted through three nights of interrupted sleep, fifteen bottles of formula and thirty thousand dirty diapers.

      At least, that’s how many it felt like. It was now Thursday evening, and Bethany hadn’t seen Tyler since the meeting they’d had with social services on Monday afternoon, at which it had been agreed that Tyler would have temporary custody of Ben. Correction: she hadn’t seen him in the flesh. Beside her on the bed was today’s newspaper, featuring a photo of Tyler and Miss Georgia at the opening of an art exhibition in Buckhead on Tuesday.

      She tossed the newspaper across the deep crimson bedcover. Who would have thought crimson could look so masculine? It must be the combination of the white walls, the dark polished floorboards, the Persian rug woven in rich reds and blues.

      Her cell phone rang, breaking the silence and startling her. Bethany fumbled her knitting, reached for the phone’s off button. She’d spent the past few days dodging calls from her mother and stalling the head of the emergency department at Emory with vague promises that she’d be available for work “soon.”

      The one person she wanted to talk to was Tyler. But she hadn’t even said two words to him about her research.

      Because the man was never here.

      So now, when Ben was napping and Bethany should have been sleeping—the dark circles beneath her eyes were growing dark circles of their own—she was instead relying on the irregular clack of her knitting needles to keep her awake. If she wasn’t careful, Tyler would make one of his lightning raids on the house while she dozed.

      She didn’t know how he managed to figure out exactly when she’d be out taking Ben for a walk, or catching forty winks, or at the store stocking up on diapers. But at some stage every day she’d arrive home, or come downstairs into the kitchen, and there’d be…no actual evidence of his presence, just an indefinable sense of order shaken up. And, occasionally, the scent of citrus aftershave, freshly but not too liberally applied.

      Tyler wouldn’t elude her today, she promised herself as she hunted for a dropped stitch with little hope of rescuing it. No matter how much Bethany knitted, she never improved, probably because knitting was a means of relieving tension rather than a passion.

      Since СКАЧАТЬ